THE CRINGE FACTOR

Now that I’ve read James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room, I can talk about one particular criticism I have about the book… involving criticism. It’s about how the main character, David, has disdain for particular groups of gay men, basically the groups he is not a part of. Is this the character’s internal homophobia? Is it also the opinion of Baldwin himself? 

 

I mentioned in last week’s post that David considers two older gay men who are central to the plot with disgust. At the beginning of Chapter 2 in Part 1, a more reflective David does confess after the fact, “I understand now that the contempt I felt for [Jacques, one of the older gays] involved my self-contempt.” Somehow I’d forgotten this line. It’s easy to do when the disgust David expresses as the narrator seems so relentless. 

 

Another group gets dissed in a few of David’s asides. The more feminine gay men seem to be despised. The reader is clobbered by David’s hate the moment he walks into a gay bar in Paris:

There were, of course, les folles, always dressed in

the most improbable combinations, screaming like

parrots…Occasionally one would swoop in, quite

late in the evening, to convey the news that he—but

they always called each other “she”—had just

spent time with a celebrated movie star, or boxer.

Then all of the others closed in on this newcomer

and they looked like a peacock garden and 

sounded like a barnyard. I always found it difficult

to believe that they ever went to bed with anybody,

for a man who wanted a woman would certainly

not want one of them. Perhaps, indeed, that was

why they screamed so loud.

 

I would like to think attitudes have changed since the book’s publication seventy years ago. Sadly, I think as long as there have been gay bars, the more effeminate have been savagely mocked by those who have some need to distinguish themselves as not one of them. Not having spent much time in gay bars—or queer spaces—in the last decade, I’d like to think the community is less divisive and, indeed, less inclined to criticize more effeminate gays. I’ve said it before in this blog and it should be obvious but it’s worth repeating. The gays who did not have the luxury of “passing” as straight have often been outed earlier because they never had an opportunity to linger in the closet while trying to figure things out about their identity. Without any choice in the matter, the more effeminate are often the first among us to be fully out. They have been the trailblazers who made things easier for the rest of us. (Personally, I believe that most of my peers suspected I was gay when I was a teen on account of my higher voice and the way I talked with my hands but only a few of them called me a gay or a faggot. There was just the slightest doubt about my gayness that offered me some extra time to figure out my identity.)

 

Immediately after David bashes more effeminate gays, he casts even harsher criticism toward a person in drag:

There was the boy who…came out at night wearing

makeup and earrings and with his heavy blond 

hair piled high. Sometimes he actually wore a

skirt and high heels. He usually stood alone

unless Guillaume walked over to tease him.

People said that he was very nice, but I confess

that his utter grotesqueness made me uneasy;

perhaps in the same way that the sight of 

monkeys eating their own excrement turns

some people’s stomachs. They might not mind

so much if monkeys did not—so grotesquely— 

resemble human beings. 

 

Okay, beyond harsh. Disturbing. 1956, I remind myself. With RuPaul, drag brunches and such, I have to think we’ve changed in this regard. Especially gay men’s attitudes regarding drag.

 

David—and Baldwin—aren’t any kinder to women. Again, 1956. The woman is subservient to the man. At one point, David thinks he’d like to get married someday and have his wife put the kids to bed. [Sorry, Daddy’s busy smoking his pipe and reading the newspaper.] There is only one significant female character in Giovanni’s Room, Hella, David’s girlfriend. Yes, David tries to have it both ways. His elder, Jacques, tells him that a gay connection can be more than sex—love, even—but it cannot endure. “And how long, at best, can it last? Since you are both men and still have everywhere to go? Only five minutes, I assure you, only five minutes, and most of that…in the dark.”

 

Okay, sad…

 

Back to Hella. It is noteworthy that she is absent for most of the story. She is an American who is traveling by herself in Spain for an extended period. She comes across as a strong woman and yet she still buys into the times. “[I]f women are supposed to be led by men and there aren’t any men to lead them, what happens then? What happens then?” Immediately thereafter, Hella reaches for her purse, pulls out her compact and applies lipstick. So much for strength and that European independence.

 

Giovanni’s Room. A classic, they say. A reflection of the times, I suppose. But so much disparagement. To be fair, Baldwin isn’t so kind to one—perhaps both—of his main characters, as well. A readable book, but a gloomy, severe outlook nonetheless. 

GIOVANNI'S ROOM (Book Review)

I must admit that, when a book is termed a classic, I feel intimidated. I think of titles such as Beowulf, The Canterbury Tales and James Joyce’s Ulysses. I assume the book will be challenging for my brain to access. The language will be too flowery and high-brow, perhaps even archaic. The dialogue will be too smart, as though only the author and select readers are in on the joke. I even dread the fact individual paragraphs may ramble on for a couple of pages. 

 

I pre-judge classics. I avoid them. Instead, I pick up a “beach read” without a pang of guilt.

 

This is why I told myself that I’d never read Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin which is widely regarded as a gay classic. I got so far as checking it out once from the library, but I returned it when it came due, never having opened the cover. 

 

While helping clean out the house of Evan’s highly literate aunt who died of cancer in the fall, Giovanni’s Room stared at me from a bookshelf. I’d been looking for another title Pilar had recommended to me but, alas, never found it. Giovanni called my name. 

 

All right, dammit. I took it. 

 

I finally read it this past week. 

 

What surprised me from the first page was how accessible it was. If I had to reread sentences, it was on account of my drifting mind rather than Baldwin stuffing them with six-syllable synonyms for “happy” and prepositional phrases that leaned into Old English. Set mostly in Paris, it’s true that there were a fair number of French statements, but I understood most of them—perhaps Duolingo has actually done some good. Regardless, the French asides were not essential to understanding the story.  

 

Published seventy years ago, Giovanni’s Room is about an American in Paris, David, a blond man in his late twenties who likes to drink a lot and otherwise seems aimless. (It surprised me that the main character—and every character—was white since Baldwin was Black. Being ignorant of anything about the story, I’d at least looked forward to reading about a Black gay character.) 

 

David meets Giovanni, a bartender hired for his good looks at a gay bar owned by Guillaume, one of two older, richer gay men (the other being Jacques) whom David and Giovanni view with disgust but from whom they readily accept money. There is some clever conversation between David and Giovanni on that first night, the American versus the Italian, and it is Giovanni who declares, rather quickly, that they are friends. 

“Ah!” cried Giovanni. “Don’t you know when

you have made a friend?”

 

I knew I must look foolish and that my 

question was foolish too: “So soon?”

 

“Why no,” he said, reasonably, and 

looked at this watch, “we can wait

another hour if you like. We can be-

come friends then. Or we can wait

until closing time. We can become

friends then. Or we can wait until

tomorrow, only that means that you

must come in here tomorrow and

perhaps you have something else

to do.” He put his watch away and

leaned both elbows on the bar.

“Tell me,” he said. “what is this thing

about time? Why is it better to be

late than early? People are always

saying, we must wait, we must wait.

What are they waiting for?”

 

By morning, David, who may be bisexual or just very closeted—his girlfriend Hella is wandering Spain—has gone back to Giovanni’s room, a small unkempt maid’s chamber on the outskirts of Paris. David doesn’t have the money to continue paying for his own hotel room so he stays with Giovanni in the cramped space for several months until Hella’s return.

 

This is when things get complicated and matters unravel. David and Giovanni have fallen in love but David still tells himself he loves Hella. In fact, he is intent on marrying her. 

 

The story does not end well, the fate of one character mentioned on the third page of the novel. It’s how things get to that point that made me read to the end. 

 

While Giovanni’s Room turned out to be readable, I can’t say I loved it. The passage quoted above is my favourite part and, if there had been banter like that throughout, I would have been more entertained. But this is one of those books that is lite on action and heavy on the internal thinking of the main character. I’m not sure I even liked David and it probably didn’t help that he and Giovanni find Guillaume and Jacques disgusting mainly for the fact they are older, less attractive, less fit gay men. The older men are regularly referred to as vile—if anything they may be predatory regarding the two younger characters but Giovanni and David play the older two for money and, in Giovanni’s case, work. The lines seem blurry as to who’s preying on whom.

 

I am glad I finally read Giovanni’s Room. I don’t feel quite as shallow as a gay reader even as I track down one of Rachel Reid’s gay romances from the Game Changer series which led to the steamy TV series, Heated Rivalry. And, oh, how times have changed. Wikipedia’s entry about James Baldwin noted that Giovanni’s Room, “caused great controversy when it was first published in 1956 due to its explicit homoerotic content.” Reading that remark, I am at a loss for what that content was. Most everything happens off the page and certainly there wasn’t anything explicit of the caliber of many of today’s gay works. Not that that does much for me. Really, I just wanted something more to happen on the page… something plot-driven, in particular.

 

One must-read gay novel finished. I have so many more to consider…

 

 

SOMETHING NEW

Sometimes a routine becomes a rut. I mix up my exercise options to include hiking, biking, swimming, jogging and gym workouts but, still, things can feel stale. Especially the gym workouts.

 

It being the New Year and my partner visiting from Denver, I decided to do something different. I took advantage of a cheap one-week pass at a Vancouver yoga studio and took six classes. 

 

Vancouver feels like one of the world capitals for yoga. It’s where Lululemon was born. It’s where women wear yoga pants to, well, anywhere and everywhere. It’s only a mild surprise that buses don’t alternate their Route 99 signs with a NAMASTE message. Even so, I’d sworn off yoga until Evan entered my life. 

 

During our first two years together, I held up a strong resistance. “Want to join me? I have a buddy pass.” 

 

“Um, no thanks. You be you.” He’d go do hot yoga and I’d jog, bike or hit the gym.

 

I have good reason to swear off yoga. There is not a single part of my body that is flexible. Not only did I know I wouldn’t do it right, I was certain I’d throw off and/or annoy the yogaphiles or even the instructor. 

                  What the hell is he doing?

                  Is he even trying?

                  I’m afraid he’s going to fall over and 

                  knock me down in the process.

 

Maybe I'd have done
better if I imagined
it was like Twister...

Me, too. Me, too. 

 

But sometime over the past year, I let down my guard. Every so often Evan would ask and I would cautiously say, “Okay.”

 

A class here, a class there. Would a full week make a difference? Would I finally figure out the happy baby pose? Would I stop wondering why they have a downward dog but not a flamingo? Would I gain enough balance to reduce the wobbles?

 

I’ll cut to the chase and say I’m not a yoga convert. I suppose that was never going to happen. But I got used to the hot yoga studio environment. I didn’t complain that my shirt was dripping wet—halfway through class. I may have even come up with a (semi-) fierce warrior pose.

 

Still, it says something that my favourite part of class at this studio was when the instructor would make their way around the room at the end of a session and pass out cold lavender facecloths. Yes, a little relief from that hot room, a little something to at least stop the sweat from my brow. 

 

Cold lavender facecloths are the best.

 

And so it should be no surprise that I did not sign up for a year’s membership or even ten new sessions. Pass on passes. But a break was nice. 

 

It’s back to my familiar routines. The gym can still feel like a rut but maybe I’ll mix things up and go to a city gym every so often instead of using the same old machines in my building. Maybe we’ll get another winter stretch with no rain (and, alas, no snow) and I’ll fit in some bonus bike rides. Maybe I’ll add my very own flamingo pose to my pre-workout stretching exercises.

 

Who am I kidding? Maybe not. 

MELTING THE ICE

Okay, I’ve just finished watching the sixth and final episode of the first season of Crave/HBO’s Heated Rivalry. Like all romances, it has a happy ending. If that’s a spoiler to you, then you don’t know the romance genre. A happy ending is required; the drama arises from how they get there. 

 

It felt like a lopsided series, with two couples featured but one—the storyline with Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov—being dominant with the Scott Hunter and Kip Grady plot serving as something on an afterthought. This is a shame because, quite frankly, I cared much more about Scott and Kip. Their relationship felt like the true heart of the series while Shane and Ilya should have been the steamy side dish. In fact, Scott and Kip were the subject of the first book (Game Changer) of romance author Rachel Reid’s Game Changer series while Shane and Ilya are the main draw in the second novel, Heated Rivalry. Alas, much of the storyline involving Scott and Kip didn’t make it to the screen in what was greenlit in a short-run first season.  

 

If the first episode caught viewers’ attention for the sex, the final episode got Shane and Ilya navigating the beginnings of a relationship. The jocks were still heavy on bro talk and bro behaviour but they managed to say the key words about how they felt in the now and where they wanted to take things. 

 

It isn’t totally strange that I kept comparing the lead characters to Nick and Charlie from the Netflix series Heartstopper, not simply because both series featured a gay and a bisexual character as the developing couple, but more on account of both shows portraying how people navigate the search for sexual identity and the journey to coming out. Heartstopper hit its marks better since this exploration happened at the developmental logical time, i.e., adolescence. By contrast, I felt less patience and endearment regarding the story of Shane and Ilya who were held back by the Neanderthal milieu of professional hockey. Sure, it was nice to see them break barriers—and maybe these fictional characters will nudge a few of the pros in real life—but I couldn’t fully suppress a surge of annoyance: Come on, guys. Get over it. Get on with it. 

 

Maybe that makes me heartless or at least hypocritical. I vividly remember spending too much time in the closet and, yes, it wasn’t until my mid-twenties that I began living a slightly more authentic life as a gay man… but that was in the late ’80s in the midst of the AIDS crisis. So much has changed in the thirty-five years that have followed. 

 

Professional team sports has basically remained in the closet while everyone else has moved on. It’s like watching an Amish character turning on a television for the first time. Personally dramatic but not so interesting to watch since we’re all beyond the novelty of turning on TVs. Been there, done that. I suppose the leave-very-little-to-the-imagination sex scenes in Heated Rivalry are what’s new(er) in the Crave series. Wow. They’re showing that on a regular streaming channel? This is the most that many straight women—one of the prime target audiences for the show—have seen of gay sex. 

 

I’ll most likely tune in when the second season airs which will apparently focus on the third book in the Game Changer series, Tough Guy, about hockey player Ryan Price and musician Fabian Salah and, according to series creator Jacob Tierney in a Variety interview, continue the story of Shane and Ilya. In the meantime, I may buy the first book, Game Changer, to get more of the story involving Scott and Kip.

 

 

 

 

 

  

FEELING THE "HEAT"

I’m three episodes into Crave TV’s Heated Rivalry (now airing as well on HBO) and, yes, there are moments I needed to slide open the balcony door to cool things off. The hockey romance series is aptly described by The Advocate as a “very horny gay TV show.” In just the first episode, there was plenty of footage of shirtless jocks as well as lots of butt shots and simulated gay sex. Such scenes continue in the next two episodes though perhaps with slightly less frequency. (Or maybe the surprise of the flash factor was no longer so great.)

 

Based on the Game Changers hockey romance book series by Canadian Rachel Reid, it's nice to have a story to go along with all that skin and sex. Admittedly, the storylines are on the stale side. Hockey remains a closeted sport—like virtually every team sport—so plotlines focus on men in the closet, hoping not to be caught with another guy and, in one case, struggling with the possibility of coming out. Gayness is still taboo. It wasn’t long ago that the National Hockey League walked back its participation in team Pride Nights by no longer wearing special jerseys with rainbow stripes. This was on account of the fact that a few players refused to wear the jerseys and NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman’s conclusion that the wearing of jerseys became “a distraction.”

 

So, yes, Heated Rivalry begins with closeted characters. It feels so 1990s. 

 

Men used to joke that they read Playboy for the articles. It’s not a joke, however, that I’m continuing to watch this series for the hockey. As a kid growing up in Canada, I played a couple of seasons of hockey. I skated well but I sucked at everything else—body checking, stick handling, shooting the puck. I’ve watched hockey during the Olympics. About fifteen years ago, I avidly watched a few seasons of Vancouver Canucks hockey, in part, because I lived on the relatively remote Sunshine Coast of British Columbia and, frankly, there was little else to do. (I stopped watching because of the prominence of fighting in the sport which I’d say, if I had a conversation with Gary Bettman, is the true “distraction” in the game.)

 

Because of my background, hockey is a more interesting milieu for me than, say, the military setting for the Netflix series Boots. Rookie all-stars Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are personal rivals playing on rival teams, the Montreal Metros and the Boston Raiders. I like that these teams are referred to as among the original six in a fictitious league, just as the Montreal Canadiens and the Boston Bruins are part of the original six in the NHL. I love all the talk about goal scoring, slumps and player superstitions. I love that the comments in the press room are actually more interesting than the banal, clichéd responses real NHL players give in post-game or between-period interviews. Yes, while others may be freaking out about the hot gay sex, I’m geeking out over an authentic portrayal of the professional sport.

 

It's only a six-part season so I’m bound to finish watching Heated Rivalry. Even though the storylines feel passé in dealing with coming out, it’s significant that the series has been renewed for a second season, something that did not happen for Boots and was not followed through upon by Showtime when it initially sought to pick up the Neil Patrick Harris series Uncoupled. Mainstream streaming channels have not been particularly warm  to continuing to breathe life into gay shows. Let the steam and the story of Heated Rivalryplay on.

 

 

 

 

BODY TALK 2025

I’ve noticed a number of articles popping up, weighing in on the body sizes of the stars of Wicked: For Good. According to a CNN article, “’Wicked: For Good’ revives an uncomfortable debate about bodies and images,” it’s been considered taboo over the past decade to comment on or critique celebrities’ bodies which, frankly, is news to me. In our Insta world, stars often post thirst trap photos of their bodies, the intention being to get “likes” and build a following. To me, a “like” is itself a comment on someone’s body or how they generally look in a pic. For better or for worse, celebrities who are frequently in the public eye are often subject to scrutiny about what they wear and how they look.

 

In the case of Wicked, the concern is people are commenting that its stars look too thin and the counter-response is that a person’s thinness is none of their business. This is not new. As someone diagnosed with anorexia nervosa, I have been acutely aware of when a fashion model or a D-list celebrity is considered too thin. I struggle with this notion that people should not comment on what is perceived to be extreme thinness. I would agree that some bodies are just naturally thin. But usually the comments arise when the person’s body has gone through some sort of transformation, from larger to thinner or from thin to even thinner. 

 

I don’t read the comments but I’m sure there are many that are needlessly—and intentionally—harsh. Still, I feel certain that, when it comes to thinness, many comments are expressed out of concern. I don’t feel a strong sense that these comments should be discouraged. Speaking up when concerned—even if the concern is ultimately misplaced—may be better than saying nothing at all. 

 

Too often weight loss generates all sorts of compliments which may, in turn, encourage the person to work at shedding more pounds. Positive feedback fosters further “positive” action. But I think it’s fair for someone in earnest to vocalize a sense of caution at some point. “Hey. Are you okay? Are you checking in with a professional about your weight loss?”

 

“Invasive!” many will scream. “That’s crossing a line.” Yes. Likely. It’s tricky with people we know on a personal level while so much easier on social media. The personal level is, of course, where an expression of concern can have more of an effect… both positive and negative.

 

For myself, the eating disorder part of me loves when I start losing more weight. Looking in the mirror, I see pesky body parts become trimmer, maybe even acceptable. I carry a suspicion that, hmm, maybe my face is getting too thin but I tell myself it’s worth it to have a six-pack and tamed love handles. Weight never comes off evenly throughout the body. So often, it seems the body part I’m most bothered by is the last to show any change from heightened food restriction and increased exercise. 

 

Once, in college, a group of friends had an intervention with me. I had stumbled on a way of eating that resulted in pounds dropping off with ease to the point where I was fifty pounds lighter than I am today. I was gleeful. This was a game and I was winning. 

 

It was during the ’80s when baggy clothes were in fashion so I figured no one could see my body changes. It was all for me, not anybody else. I suppose, however, my fashionably baggy clothes reached a point of becoming unfashionably baggy. “You’ve gotten too thin,” they said. “Your face is gaunt.” The way they said it sounded harsh. They were viewing my face negatively. It was a problem.

 

It was also a jolt. To myself, everything was great. How could weight loss not be a positive thing? Society celebrated dieting success. And I was succeeding exceptionally. I did not see a doctor. I did not receive an eating disorder diagnosis. That wouldn’t come for another thirty-six years. But their talk scared me—enough for me to abandon my weight loss routine and gradually gain back some weight. 

 

Commenting made a difference.

 

I know that others will double down and assert that the commenter is out of line. The reaction will be some form of How dare you?! If there truly is an eating disorder at play—diagnosed or undiagnosed—that part of the person will fight. It will dismiss and deny. The incident may even cost a friendship. Hopefully, it doesn’t come to that. But difficult conversations are just that. Sometimes it’s better to have them no matter what the stakes are.

 

I often think of Karen Carpenter who died from an eating disorder in 1983 at the age of 32. Any Google Image search of her shows a person who is objectively on the thin side. In some photos, she looks hauntingly thin. Did people close to her wait too long to speak up? Did they not speak up at all? To this day, her death is the most tragic celebrity death I can think of. 

 

Once again, when I was thirty, some other friends called me on my weight loss. At the time, I was struggling financially and I brushed off their concerns until one of them showed up at my door with a loaf of bread from a bakery. I was deeply embarrassed. I could buy my own basic foods. Was I that thin? 

 

One friend talked to me about seeing a doctor. I’d recently moved back to Canada and didn’t have a medical practitioner. Back in the days of Yellow Pages, I didn’t have a clue how to go about picking a doctor. My friend gave me a couple of recommendations. All this concern jolted me again. I went to a doctor. Through tears, I asked him if I had an eating disorder. (Did men even get eating disorders?) He went with the empathy card instead of playing the curiosity card. He quickly said, “You don’t have an eating disorder. You’re just extremely fit.” In my gut, this didn’t sit right. It offered no relief. Normally, I’d have been giddy from the “extremely fit” remark. I knew deep down I had a problem. I knew my routines were exhausting me. I needed a professional to tell me to stop. Whether I stopped or not was another matter, but it would have helped to have even the possibility of an eating disorder acknowledged. That still wouldn’t come for another twenty-three years.[1]

 

All this is to say that I don’t think commenting on social media about a celebrity losing perhaps too much weight is going to make a difference, even when well-intentioned. Many celebs are extremely image-conscious. Their profession makes this so. It is possible that a strong wave of remarks about possibly being “too thin” might make them consider talking to a doctor, a psychiatrist or a dietitian. I suspect the public comments might instead provide an impetus for friends, family or even an agent to have a frank, caring conversation. “Well…now that it’s out there…” Again, getting a professional opinion to make sure they haven’t gone too far can be a good thing, assuming the professional proves to be more knowledgeable and curious than mine was all those years ago.

 

Eating disorders thrive on secrecy. Mine certainly does. When it is finally “out there” with others noticing and wondering, there is at least the possibility for consultation and, with professional support, slow change. Honestly, when it comes to conversation about someone you know possibly being too thin, I think it’s better to err on the side of concern. Have a talk, one where you say what you think should be said, but listen even more, assuming the topic isn’t outright shut down as it may well be. Eating disorders are fierce. They are destructive but, while a person clings to one, the disorder is also doing something perceived as positive. One person expressing concern may not be enough to affect change. 

 

Tricky stuff. I know it all too well.

   

 

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[1] Interestingly, my prior blog post titled BODY TALK and written in 2014 speaks as though I have an eating disorder even though it would still not be diagnosed for three more years. The body and brain knew. Professionals just weren’t picking up on it.

THE NUMBERS GAME

Time to pause for a little celebration. When I started this blog in 2008, it was called Rural Gay. I was feeling isolated as a middle-aged gay man on BC’s Sunshine Coast and the blog was often the only place to explore that part of my identity. In 2015, I moved back to Vancouver and, thus, the blog required a name change, however awkward: Rural Gay Gone Urban. The name never sat well with me and I eventually retitled it to what it is today, Aging Gayly.

 

Throughout this time, I have posted more than 850 posts. I didn’t know I had that much content floating about in my brain! Somehow, I continue to find topics. The aim is to post once a week, but I give myself the week off on occasion when I search my brain and it replies with, “Nope… nothing.” Okay then.

 

This past Saturday, the blog hit a milestone, surpassing 1,000,000 views. Hard to fathom. I am grateful to all who have stopped by, intentionally, curiously or even mistakenly over the years. I will continue to write. I hope you will continue to visit.